


The Dancing Goat Bookshop

by JustCrushALot



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Christen plays soccer, F/F, Fluff, Mild Angst, There is a meddling bookshop owner, Tobin is a Baker, happy holigays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27874309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustCrushALot/pseuds/JustCrushALot
Summary: After years of hard work chasing a singular goal, Christen finds herself alone in Sweden feeling more distant from that goal than ever before. But maybe a chance meeting with a beautiful baker and some mistletoe can change all of that.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 33
Kudos: 225
Collections: Preathfics Winter 2020 Collection





	The Dancing Goat Bookshop

Something interesting happens when you compare the emotional expressions of silver and bronze medalists standing on an olympic podium. Objectively speaking, second place is better than third. But when you look at their faces, the people getting the bronze medal look much happier than those getting the silver.

It’s because their emotional reactions are all about what might have been. Silver medalists look up at those lofted above them and wonder what might have been if they had just pushed a little harder. Bronze medalists, on the other hand, look down at the ground below the podium and think about everyone they beat to get there.

It’s all about who you’re comparing yourself to.

Of course, feeling happy on the podium isn’t all there is to sport. You have to play another day. And that’s where this observation about emotional expression might lead one to draw the wrong conclusions.

When you’re satisfied and standing on the top of the podium, you look out at what you’ve done and you feel good about yourself: you did it. Everyone is below you; you are the best. The problem with being the best, though, is staying the best. 

Standing on top allows this small whisper in your head to manifest. It speaks to you in moments of frustration. It calls to you when your body starts to ache. It tells you, “It’s okay, you’re the best, you can calm down. Let’s coast for a while.” 

But when you’re looking up—when you’re second best—it lights a fire in you. The whisper that calls to you in moments of ache and frustration—yours tells you to push harder.

Put simply: the problem with being satisfied is that you can forget you were ever hungry. 

* * *

When Christen Press won the Hermann Trophy, she felt satisfied. Everyone told her the call up from the national team was coming any day. But it didn’t. And slowly, she was forced to accept that it wasn’t going to come until one day she found herself here—in this fucking cold place so far from home pulling on the collar of this itchy jersey as cold rain starts to sting the crown of her head. 

She imagines herself in one of those Gatorade ads the rain and sweat on her brow dyed yellow or blue. She shakes her head in slow motion, thinking about how good it might look on camera. And then she drops her hand, takes two steps, and places the ball precisely where she wants to. But no one from her team is there. They’re all out of position. Her efforts are in vain. She’s hungry, sure, but she’s just not sure she’s ever going to taste it again.

* * *

At the start of it all, when things still felt a little hopeful, Christen rented an apartment downtown that felt like a dream. It’s on the second floor of a bookstore run by a British woman, which is next to a bakery she’s told is run by an American, and across from a wine shop whose owner’s origin does not matter to her. Books, baked goods, and wine: the holy trinity of comfort. The apartment is spacious, charming, and in an area full of expats. And, in the summer the apartment feels light and airy, with its white walls and big windows. It has the smallest of balconies, just big enough to fit a tiny bistro set. When she is out there, if she stands on her tip-toes, she can see the river. It is a disney fairytale kind of place; the kind of place you text your friends pictures of and they say call you lucky. But in so many ways, she feels like she’s in a Brother's Grimm fairy tale kind of life; the kind of life where she hasn’t heard from most of those friends in months. 

It’s not that she’s not grateful for the opportunity—she is. It’s just—

Everything is cold, and home is far away, and what if it’s all for nothing? What if this is the desert and everything she’s hoping for is a mirage? 

And people at training keep telling her this is a mild winter. They tell her the rain is warmer than the snow. But she feels like she is always freezing and the 7 hours of daylight just aren’t enough to thaw her out—especially because it’s been cloudy every day. So, the dream apartment has become a beautiful jail cell. Mostly she leaves only to pick up take-out and to go to training. Other than that, she sits around her apartment, typing out really long emails to her family members. 

She does have her teammates and they do team dinners together once a month. And over time, she feels like she is getting close to a few of them, but mostly everyone goes their separate ways after practice and matches. It’s their job, and they are colleagues, and she hasn’t been bold enough to actually ask someone to do something outside of work.

But, maybe, the worst part of all is that she’s stuck here for the holidays. No family. No ham or matching pajamas. No inside jokes and rooms filled with the laughter that has served as the soundtrack for her entire life. It’s all just— 

dark.

And cold.

And lonely. 

But if this is what it’s going to take to get the life of her dreams, she’s up for it.

* * *

The first sign that things will get better comes with an invitation from her landlord, the bookstore owner. 

> _Dr. and Mr. Eunice Page Cordially Invite You to the 14th Annual  
>  _ _Convivialist Christmas for the Books  
>  _ _A night of literature, wine, and making spirits bright  
>  _ _On Fifth December at Seven O’ Clock PM  
>  _ _at The Dancing Goat Bookshop_

The information on the back of the invitation tells her that the evening is “as dressy or casual as you want. Eunice will be wearing a gown.” It asks her to bring a bottle of wine for a wine exchange and tells her that access to a “VIP” port wine tasting comes with the purchase of three or more books. 

Reading it, she smiles. She doesn’t know her landlords that well—having primarily interacted with them as she is browsing books—but the invitation seems perfectly _them_. 

Plus, it gives her something to look forward to; something for which to buy an outfit and a nice bottle of wine. It lets her hope that for one night she won’t feel entirely alone in this foreign country.

And privately, as she’s falling asleep at night, she lets herself realize that she will be in a room full of strangers who like wine and books. She lets herself hope she might meet a person there who understands her— 

in some way. 

in any way at all. 

Someone with whom she could drink tea and complain about the weather. She knows it’s unlikely, but she lets herself imagine what it might be like to make a proper friend here. Someone outside football. 

And in the haze just before she dreams, she lets herself realize that maybe the hunger she’s feeling extends beyond football. 

* * *

The second sign that things are looking up comes, somewhat ironically, in the form of a fall. It’s December 4th and it’s the coldest it’s been since she’s moved to Sweden. Christen looks as if she is protecting herself against Antarctic-winter temperatures as she leaves her apartment. She's decided that -3* C is simply too cold for a human to bear with only one coat. So she donned two of them over three layers of clothing before leaving the apartment.

As the temperatures dropped over the past few weeks, Christen found herself purchasing winter clothing online, almost as a coping mechanism; like if she had more winter clothes the temperature would stick somewhere mild and she would never actually have to use them. Still, in all her purchases of gloves, mittens, hats, and coats, she had yet to purchase any footwear. She already had shoes that were warm and waterproof. And really, isn’t that the most important thing? Still, when she hits the patch of black ice between the bookstore and the bakery, she considers, mid-air, that her winter shoes might also need traction. 

She hits the ground, flat on her back, with a hard thud and everything in her hands goes sliding down the sidewalk. She immediately starts to turn over to stand up and pain shoots all the way up her spine. 

“Fuck.” She whispers to herself, letting her body relax back onto the icy sidewalk as she contemplates her next move.

“Are you okay?” She hears an unfamiliar voice shout, full of panic. 

“Yeah. I’m okay just give me a second.” She yells back at the frozen sky, worried that looking for the source of the voice will hurt more than just staring up.

“Oh god, can you move?” The voice draws closer until a figure enters her vision, contrasted starkly against the sky above. As her vision adjusts, she takes in the sight of an apron, shirtsleeves folded to the elbow, a strong jaw, full lips, and striking brown eyes full of worry and panic.

“Yeah, uh, I think I’m okay. Just— I just, uh, need a second.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She tries to sit up again but feels like she is doing sit ups against a resistance band as she fights against her five layers of clothing. She grunts and strains and falls back against the sidewalk again, conceding defeat with a sigh. 

“Here,” the brown-eyed woman says, offering her hands. Christen clasps them and the woman counts, “Three, two, one.” On “one” she pulls back and pulls Christen to her feet. Christen is surprised by the woman’s strength as she almost falls forward onto her. The woman catches her by the waist, righting her. 

“Thanks, thanks for—” Christen starts to say, but the woman is already moving away from her and picking up Christen’s scattered belongings. 

“I— Sorry! You don’t have to do that.” She calls out. But the woman continues, gathering all of her things and walking them back to Christen. 

“Thank you.” Christen almost whispers, staring sheepishly into the woman’s eyes

“No problem! Are you okay?”

“I think so. But also maybe I’m still a little in shock. I haven’t fallen out of the blue like that in—maybe I’ve never fallen like that?”

The woman chuckles at her. “Well, it’s going to happen a lot more if you keep wearing those flat-soled boots to walk around on ice.”

Christen bows her head down and stares at her own feet, shuffling them as if she is inspecting them. “Yeah, I’m kind of new to this whole ice and snow and winter thing.”

“Yeah? So your accent— it’s American, then? Not Canadian?”

“Guilty as charged. Southern California girl.”

“Nice! I love Southern California. Growing up I always wanted to move there and live on the beach and become a surfer. I was obsessed.” And the admission of an unprompted personal detail feels strange to Christen—nostalgic, almost. It reminds her of home. 

Christen smirks, “So, you chose the year-round beach paradise of Gothenburg, Sweden to pursue this surfing dream?”

The woman cackles. “Yep, I was just about to head out and catch some waves when I saw you fall.”

The woman smiles genuinely and Christen thinks she hasn’t seen a smile that big and genuine in months. “Well, I am sorry for keeping you then! Good luck out there. Hang ten, brah, etcetera, etcetera.” She makes a shaka with her left hand and waves it back and forth.

The woman laughs louder. “Thank you. As Gothenburg’s primer winter surfer, my time on the water is key. Tobin Heath, by the way.” She extends her hand out to Christen. “Year-round surfer, part-time baker.”

“Christen Press,” she says, taking Tobin’s hand. “Professional soccer player.” She offers, almost as a question. 

“Wait! Really?” She asks incredulously, seemingly unsure whether to believe Christen or not. But then a look of recognition sweeps over her face. “Christen? Soccer? Oh! You’re the girl living above Eunice and Dave’s?”

Christen nods. “That’d be me.”

“Oh my god you’re so lucky, I love that place. It’s so beautiful! I almost rented out my own place just so I could move in there when they put it out on the market.” She says, gesturing up above the bakery. 

“That’s what they all tell me.” she says with a sigh. 

“What?” Tobin looks concerned. “You don’t like it?”

“No. Sorry. It’s fine. It’s beautiful. It’s just cold, and not really home, you know?” And the admission feels heavy. Certainly too heavy for a stranger. And for a conversation that was just light banter. “Sorry,” Christen apologizes again. 

“Yeah.” Tobin says, empathy in her eyes, “but this town has a way of growing on you. Especially if you get proper footwear.” She winks at Christen.

Christen smiles and laughs. “I will be sure to do that! It was nice to meet you, Tobin,” she offers, turning to walk back down the sidewalk. 

“You too, Christen! See you around.”

* * *

When she takes her coat off later, she realizes there are hand prints made in flour on her hips, right where Tobin caught her. She wishes, just for a moment, that she had been able to properly feel Tobins hands on her hips. She thinks she will never wear so many layers again.

* * *

Later, when she returns home, she finds a paper bag just inside her door with a note stapled to it. 

> _I hope you don’t mind, Eunice let me drop this inside the entryway. I was worried about leaving everything in the snow._
> 
> _Here are a few things to help you recover from your epic ice fall and some prevention for the future. If they don’t fit, no worries, just bring them back by the bakery. -T_

Inside the paper bag is a box of a few pastries with a small baggie of ibuprofen taped to the top with the words, “Carbs + meds = recovery,” scrawled in messy handwriting, and under those are a pair of simple black snow boots in Christen’s size.

Christen smiles and swoons and hugs the bag as she carries it upstairs. The rest of the night, as she goes on with her normal routine, she finds herself smiling even more.

* * *

The third sign that things are looking up comes when she finds a bottle of her very favorite wine from back home at the wine shop. She buys two bottles—one for the wine exchange and one for herself. Or maybe herself and someone else. She’s not ruling that out at the moment. 

* * *

Christen is ready for the party over 20 minutes early. She paces the apartment a few times wringing her hands and considering possible topics of conversation. She’s not totally nervous, she’s also… excited. She has a place to go for an evening where people are expecting her. And sure, she is a little bit nervous. She’s not really interacted with people outside of football in a while. And, what if everyone there looks down on her for being American? She sighs, trying to tell herself again that the reason her heart is beating so quickly in her chest is that she’s excited. For books and wine and maybe even friends. 

She looks down at the time and decides she should really not leave for the party until at least five after the hour. She pulls out an open bottle of wine and makes herself sit down and scroll through instagram while she drinks it. She has seen about three dozen ostensibly artistic photos of people’s meals when the clock finally reaches 7:05pm. She checks herself in the mirror one more time and heads downstairs. 

She’s astounded when she walks into the Dancing Goat Bookshop. Eunice and Dave have hung lights and garland all throughout the bookshop and have rearranged the shelves in a way that makes the whole thing seem like a private library in a boho mansion rather than a quaint and dusty little book store on the corner. Where worn out chairs and stacks of tattered magazines once sat, a Jazz band is playing uptempo music. Where there usually sits a coffee pot with a jar for honor-system payment, is a large bar cart stocked with at least fifteen different wines and dozens of wine glasses. Dave, who Christen normally sees in a windbreaker and slacks, is dressed in a blue pinstripe suit with a yellow bowtie and Eunice, who is often in an oversized sweater and leggings, reading glasses hanging from her neck, has on a beautiful peach and gold floor-length gown. It’s like she’s stepped into some alternate universe of their lives where they are an elegant and wealthy couple rather than offbeat bookstore owners. 

Despite her plan to be casually kind of late, Christen seems to be one of the first to arrive, and immediately draws attention from the Pages and their first two guests. Christen’s wearing a black short-skirted long-sleeved sweater dress with semi-sheer black tights and a long gold necklace. She has her hair pinned back on one side. And, she knows she looks good, but the way the guy next to Dave looks her up and down makes her feel more confident. 

“Christen!” Eunice calls. “Come join us!” She holds out an arm. As Christen strides over she hears Eunice telling the guy next to Dave, “Todd, this is Christen, our new renter, the professional soccer player I was telling you about.” And suddenly, she pairs Eunice’s words and tone with the look Todd gave her and she starts to panic. “Christen, this is my extremely charming and attractive neighbor, Todd.”

_Is this the type of environment to come out? To your landlord? Do they think she’s straight? What if they aren’t okay with her living in their building if she’s not? Does Sweden have laws protecting her?_

Her thoughts continue to spiral as she steps into Eunice’s embrace, giving her a side hug and holding out her hand to shake Todd’s, “Christen. It’s a pleasure.” 

“Todd.” He replies shaking her hand. “That dress is beautiful on you.” 

He has an Australian accent. Or maybe South African? New Zealand? She’s honestly horrible at distinguishing between them. 

His handshake is firm and he wears his suit oh so well. And she can see why, if he’s single, Eunice might want to set them up. But there is one glaring problem with that idea—she’s not into men. 

Well, sexually at least. She has men who are friends, a father even. 

She wills her thoughts still as she blushes slightly smiling shyly, “Thank you.”

“I know it’s early, but I already need a refill. Can I get you as glass, Christen?” Todd asks. 

“Oh please, let the girl pick out her own wine, kid,” Dave replies before Christen has even fully processed the question.

“Well then, join me?” Todd holds out his elbow for Christen to take, like they aren’t five steps from the bar cart. Like she can’t walk those five steps on her own. She takes it anyway, forcing a smile and laugh. 

“My favorite is the…” Todd pauses, pulling up a wine bottle. He names some wine and Christen is not paying attention to what he says. She’s trying to figure out a way to go back to her apartment and call it a night. She could fake a stomach ache—

Or say she needs to call her family?

“Christen?” Todd interrupts, holding the bottle out to her.

“Sure, Todd, that sounds great.” She tries to sound upbeat.

He pours her a glass of the 2011 chateau something or other red varietal and she takes it, taking a big drink—honestly it’s more of a gulp. 

“Whoa there, not much for social situations, huh?” Todd asks. 

“I’m a little nervous,” Christen admits. “I don’t know anyone here.”

He reaches out his hand to shake hers again. “Hi, I’m Todd. I’m from New Zealand originally, but I’ve been in Gothenburg about 8 years now. I work for the Swedish East India Company.” He smiles genuinely. “See, now you know somebody.”

“Nice to meet you, Todd, I’m Christen. I’m originally from California, but I’ve been in Gothenburg for about 4 months now. I play for Gothenburg FC.” She pauses for a second, smiling at him. She might not want to date him, but he seems genuinely nice and around her age and she wonders whether they might be friends. “Okay, my new friend Todd...”

“Whoa, whoa, who said anything about friends? You move fast, you know that, Christen?” He interrupts with a chuckle. “Next thing you know, you’ll be proposing marriage.”

She chokes on his words and tries to chuckle back but it comes out strained and tentative. “No, I wasn’t saying— I was just—”

“I’m kidding, Christen.” He assures, “What is your question my dear?”

She takes a sip of her wine, feeling a little unsure. He seems to read it on her. 

“Seriously, I was joking. I’m really sorry. I would love to be your new friend Todd. Will you be my new friend Christen?”

She smiles sheepishly, still feeling awkward and nods, “I’d like that. Okay, can we just back up a bit? You said you work for the East India Company? Like, um, the company with the tea that kind of started the American Revolution? And then sold slaves?”

“Oh no!” he gasps. “You’ve confused us with a much more aggressive British version of our namesake. Actually, the original Swedish East India Company were inspired by them, as well as the Dutch East India company. And, while the company did deal in tea back then, it shuttered in the early 1800s. Rather unsuccessful in its last few years, I might add. No, actually, I am a marketing person for a glorified historical society. We have a replica of the trading company’s original ship that travels all over the world. I basically promote it.”

“Wow!” Christen is genuinely surprised. “What an interesting job. Kind of random for a New Zealander. How did you get into that?”

“Well, um, actually.” He looks behind her and motions for someone to come over. She looks back to see a man walking their way. “My husband grew up here in Gothenburg. We met studying abroad in Spain and had a whirlwind romance. When I graduated college, he asked me to move to Sweden to be with him. The company was hiring so I applied, and here we are!”

A wave of relief washes over Christen at the word “husband.” She’s so glad that she doesn’t have to disappoint both a possible new friend and her landlords all in the same night—in her first and only night out in months.

The conversation and the wine flow and Eunice introduces Christen to so many new people. At some point, after her second glass—or is it the third?—Christen blurts to Eunice in a moment alone, “I totally thought you two were trying to hook me up with Todd.”

Eunice tilts her head and gives her a curious stare before shaking it back and forth, as if she is clearing out a strange thought, and saying, “Oh no, dear. He’s gay. And I thought— I actually had someone else in mind for you, but I think I might have— Nevermind. Let’s go chat with Arthur.”

Christen gives her a questioning look, waiting for her to say anything, but Eunice just shrugs and raises her eyebrows. Christen feels a little warm and like the wine is starting to affect her. “You know, Eunice, I am going to go look at the books you all curated for tonight. I need to earn that port with some book purchases, after all.”

“Very well, dear. Come find me if you’re lonely!” Eunice spins and walks toward a group of three men. Christen can’t help but feel a little taken aback. 

_Can Eunice see how totally lonely she is here? Was this a pity invite?_

She shakes the thoughts off as she makes her way through the small set of shelves they’ve set up in the back of the room, opening some books, thumbing through them. She’s glancing through some young adult novel when someone behind her says, “I see you’re still wearing improper footwear.” 

She turns to find Tobin standing behind her and she’s stunned at the sight. Instead of her apron and shirtsleeves she’s in a fitted suit that perfectly accentuates her athletic frame. It’s both feminine and masculine and she is positively stunning. Christen feels her pulse quicken as she tries her best not to look blatantly flustered by Tobin’s presence. The phrase “wow, you clean up nice,” barrels from her brain and out of her mouth before she can stop it. Despite the blush tinting Christen’s cheeks, Tobin offers a sweet smile and says, “Thanks.” Christen’s lips curl up automatically in response and her cheeks blush even brighter as Tobin adds, “You too,” and looks her up and down, “wow.” 

Christen watches Tobin’s mouth as she says the words and she worries she might have gasped aloud. Tobin really is— 

Wow— 

Christen thinks back to their encounter yesterday morning and wonders how, in her flustered state, she did not really see Tobin. She remembers registering her as attractive but right now—

In this moment—

Christen wants to grab her hand and leave the party and take her upstairs. 

“I hardly recognized you without the 37 coats.” Tobin chuckles. 

“Hey!” Christen defends. “It’s cold out there!”

Tobin laughs at her and Christen thinks it’s one of the most beautiful laughs she’s ever heard. 

“You left flour on my jacket, you know?”

“My apologies, did you need me to send that out to have it laundered?”

Christen smirks at her and for a moment it feels like they are speaking without any words. She just stares into Tobin’s eyes smiling and Tobin stares right back, like it’s perfectly ordinary to stare silently into the eyes of someone you just met. Christen clears her throat, “um, thanks for the boots.”

“Do they fit?” Tobin asks hopefully.

“Yeah, they’re just my size.”

“Snow-boot Cinderella they’ll call you.”

“Does that make you my prince or princess charming?”

Tobin gives a short laugh, “My only choices are what gendered term I use, not whether I am even royalty?”

“No— I mean—” Christen searches her mind trying to find a way to recover, “I mean, either way, the important thing is that you’re charming.”

Christen thinks she might see Tobin blush slightly, but she’s not sure. She continues, “Thank you for the proper footwear. I will return it as soon as my order of boots with tread comes in.”

“No need.” Tobin says nonchalantly, “Consider them a welcome-to-Gothenburg-a-few-months-late-because-somehow-I-missed-out-on-meeting-the-prettiest-girl-in-town present.”

“Wow. I didn’t know that was a kind of present people gave!” Christen quips, trying not to dwell on the fact that Tobin just called her pretty. 

“Would you like a glass of wine, Cinderella?” Tobin asks, moving almost imperceptibly closer to Christen. Enough so that Christen feels like she can feel 

“Absolutely, Your Royal Highness.”

Tobin and Christen get a glass of wine and end up in the far corner of the book store talking. It’s quieter there; they can really hear each other and nobody tries to join them. And Christen doesn’t mind. Other than Todd and his husband, she hasn’t really clicked with the others. Everyone is nice, but they’re all much older and have lived in Gothenburg for so many years. And, honestly, she thinks she could attend a hundred more parties with a thousand interesting people and she would only want to talk to Tobin. 

Tobin whose eyes light up when she laughs in a way Christen has never seen anyone else’s do before. Tobin whose strong and sexy jaw clenches when she pantomimes taking a burning pan out of the oven. Tobin who is sweet and lovely and staring at her like there is nobody else in the room; like there nobody else in the whole world.

“A few more minutes and we’ll get started with the main event.” Eunice calls walking around the bookshelves. “Oh!” She calls out stopping in her tracks, looking at Christen and Tobin. She points her finger out and gestures between them. “You found each other, then.”

“Found each ot—?” Christen starts.

“Eunice, I’ll have you know, I basically saved this poor girl’s life yesterday.”

Eunice chuckles, “You said as much, Tobin, when you came to bring her your baked goods.”

“And proper footwear,” Tobin corrects.

“Are you telling the whole town I fell in front of your store?” Christen hits Tobin on the arm playfully with each syllable.

“It’s a bakery.” Tobin argues back, as if that addresses Christen’s concern at all.

“Oh good, I was right then!” Eunice declares, interrupting them with a gleam in her eye. She turns and saunters back toward the rest of the party, ignoring Tobin and Christen as they say in unison, “Right about what?”

Eunice and Dave’s performance with the Jazz band is both unexpected and totally on brand, and the port tasting is a smash hit. As the night winds down and the band leaves, Christen watches over Tobin’s shoulder as people cut checks to help support the store and wander out with large stacks of books. It’s really amazing, she thinks, the way the community comes together to support The Dancing Goat. 

After most party guests have cleared out, Eunice and Dave approach Tobin and Christen. “Well, ladies, since you seem to be the only two here we might be able to ask a favor of, we are wondering if you can help us move some of the book boxes back out of storage, just to make it easier in the morning.” 

“And to preserve Dave’s back.” Eunice whisper-shouts, feigning as if she is hiding their conversation by obscuring the side of her mouth facing him.

“Of course!” Christen is quick to volunteer. Tobin nods along. 

Eunice lets them into the storage room where there are several crates of books stacked with instructions on where to place them. 

Tobin and Christen make quick work of it and clear out the room in about ten minutes. As they are leaving, Tobin leads the way. She suddenly turns abruptly and stops in the hallway door frame just outside the storage room. Christen nearly crashes into her, but catches herself before she does. 

“What the hell, Tobin? Did you forget something?”

Tobin takes one of Christen’s hands and takes a slight step back, leading Christen closer to her. Then she looks up with her eyes wordlessly. 

Christen follows them to find that there is mistletoe hanging just at the top of the door frame.

“We crossed under this like a hundred times.” Tobin says, matter-of-factly. “I think we are cursed with seven years of bad luck or something if we do it again without—.” She pauses and breathes deeply, her breath disjointed despite the air of confidence in her words.

Christen gives her a knowing smirk. “Oh, is that so?” She takes a step closer to Tobin until she’s in Tobin’s space, hovering only inches from her. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” she whispers softly, closing her eyes and the space between them, hanging her lips just above Tobin’s, holding her breath and waiting for Tobin to lean slightly forward. She ignores the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, the sweat she’s certain is forming on her palms. She just hovers there, eyes closed, until Tobin closes the space between them and kisses her softly. It’s slow, lips barely parted, but both pressing into one another, a subtle acknowledgement of the mutuality of it all. 

And then Tobin slides her left hand around Christen’s waist and threads her right into Christen’s hair and pulls her in close and kisses her deeply. Christen leans into the kiss, pushing back against Tobin, their lips and tongues moving together. The kiss gets hungrier and quicker and Christen backs Tobin against the door frame, pressing their bodies together. 

“Ahhem,” Dave clears his throat. “I— uh— need to get into storage.” Christen blushes and pulls back from Tobin hyper aware of the fact that she was so lost in the moment that she forgot they were in the book store. 

“I’m also pretty sure you both have rooms somewhere nearby,” Dave says as he passes between them. 

As he does, Tobin and Christen make eye contact as they try to laugh silently. “So, uh? Your place or mi—” Christen starts before she hears someone calling Tobin’s name.

“Tobin? Darling?” The voice rounds the corner. And at that second word Christen’s face goes totally white. She looks at Tobin, but Tobin is already looking in the direction of the voice. She feels her head start to spin as a woman she’s never seen before approaches, wrapping her arm around Tobin’s waist. “Toby, are you ready to leave yet? I am a little drunk and I would like you to take me home right now.”

Tobin starts, “Just give me a second, Babe, I…” and Christen has heard enough. She turns and strides as quickly as she can out of the store ignoring Tobin calling after her. When she’s outside, she runs to her apartment and busts inside and locks the door. She rushes upstairs and lets herself fall down on the bed and cry. 

And she feels stupid…

For kissing Tobin. 

For not making sure she was single.

For letting Tobin get to her this much already.

For being so foolish to believe something so good could come so easily. 

For hoping. 

She just feels so so so stupid.

She wakes up the next day to a tear-soaked pillow still in her dress and boots. She showers and lets herself imagine that it washes everything away—that it makes last night into fiction. She gets dressed in her favorite clothes and puts on her stupid flat-soled boots. And for just a moment, she appreciates them deeply, because they’ll remind her to be cautious out there. 

Christen goes out for a walk. She walks along the river and stops in a shop to get coffee. She lets the air freeze her tears inside. 

When she gets back to her apartment there is a paper bag hooked on her door with the words “Can we talk? Come to the bakery?” Scrawled across them. Inside are two _stupid_ heart shaped cookies. Christen throws the bag on the ground and goes inside. 

For the next few days everything goes back to normal—Christen goes to training and comes home and orders takeout and writes long emails to her family. 

She drinks her favorite wine and she reminds herself that she is supposed to be hungry. She reminds herself being hungry doesn’t guarantee that you get to eat. She reminds herself that she has to work for it. 

She finds baked goods on her doorstep every day with notes that seem to be getting longer and longer. And every day she leaves them there, uneaten and unread. 

* * *

Six days after the party Christen gets a call on her cellphone from an unknown local number. She contemplates not picking it up, but worries it might be something important.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Christen?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.

“This is she.” Christen replies, unsure who is calling her.

“It’s Todd, babe! From the Swedish East India Company. We exchanged numbers at the Dancing Goat Bookshop?”

“Hi! Todd!” Christen exclaims genuinely, realizing for the first time that the night wasn’t a total wash.

“Hey, I was wondering if you might like to get some tea with me this afternoon?”

“Sure!” Christen feels a mixture of excitement and sadness prick her throat. “Just let me know where.”

A friend. A real friend who does have a partner and is not in any way interested in her. A friend.

She meets Todd at a charming Cafe near a park. An early snowfall has blanketed the town and they sit near a window watching children play in the snow. 

Conversation with Todd is much easier when she doesn’t think he is trying to hit on her and she finds herself laughing hysterically as he recounts how unprepared he was for the cold when he moved to Gothenburg. It feels good, laughing with a friend you can see. Whose leg you can slap. Who reads your emotional expressions right away, not on a 10-second delay. 

“So, Chrissy?” Todd croons, “What’s going on with you and that baker? You seemed so close at the party!”

Christen feels her mood flatten. She looks down at the floor and runs her hand through her hair sighing.

“Nothing, Toddy. Nothing at all.”

“Why not?” he exclaims. “You two looked like you really hit it off! P.S., that nickname is really not going to work.”

“She’s…” Christen feels a lump swelling in her throat as she chokes out, “taken.”

“No, she’s not.” Todd corrects without missing a beat.

“Yes, she is.” Christen agues back.

“No, Chrissy, she’s not. That girl has been single since her ex dumped her for their bakery assistant like—forever ago.”

“Well there was someone at the party calling her darling and asking her to go home together.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Todd, I kissed her and not twenty seconds later she was calling someone babe.”

“Oh, no! Christen. Was she blonde? Short-ish hair? Skinny? Strong cheek bones? About yay high?” He says, standing and marking a height against his shoulder. 

“Yeah.” Christen responds, her tone almost a question. 

“Chrissy, Chrissy, Chrissy.” Todd says as if he is chastising her. “My sweet summer child. That… was Babe.”

“What?”

“Babe. Her name is literally Babe. That’s Tobin’s ex. She’s Dave’s great niece or something. Tobin moved to Gothenburg for her years ago, but they broke up like six months in. Tobin stayed because she’d opened a bake shop and she was kind of a nomad anyway. Babe just gets weird and seems flirty when she’s drunk. Tobin always ends up driving her home from things. Some weird sense of moral obligation or something, but trust me when I say that Tobin has no interest in her.”

“Oh my god!” Christen exclaims, suddenly embarrassed. She stands abruptly. “Todd, are you telling me I’ve been ignoring her and turning down baked goods all because of a misunderstanding?!?”

“Apparently!” Todd confirms. 

“Shit, listen, I have to go. Will you still be my friend?” It registers after what a strange question that is to ask.

“Of course, Chrissy. Go get your girl.” Todd says dramatically. 

* * *

It’s 7pm exactly, one week after the party. Christen paces back and forth nervously, wiping her hands on her dress. “Dave, do you think she’s going to buy this?”

“I would.” He responds warmly. 

It dosen’t calm her, doesn’t steady her racing heart. The truth is, she hasn’t stopped thinking about Tobin. That’s what hurt her the worst. That out of everything that has happened in the past five or six years, Tobin is the first that felt completely natural. Tobin was the first that felt exactly right. Tobin was the first to make her feel like she might not always have to be hungry. Like she could find joy in satisfaction. 

And it’s stupid and fast. She. knows that. But that doesn’t make it any less real.

“Oohp!” Dave calls. “Here they come.”

Christen hears Eunice and Tobin’s voices growing nearer. Tobin sounds frenzied and worried. “What did you tell Eunice to tell her?!” Christen shout-whispers. 

Dave faces his palms toward the sky and shrugs before cartoonishly letting his body move toward the storage room, while keeping his head in place and then pointing as if he is simply following his feet. 

“Dave are you—” Tobin bursts in the door.

She halts in her tracks and turns immediately on her heel to leave.

“Eunice you dirty—” Eunice grasps Tobin by the shoulders and pushes inward, Tobin seeming to lose ground in her attempt to escape. Christen can’t decide if Eunice is surprisingly strong or if Tobin is letting Eunice push her into the book store. 

“Sit, you idiot.” Eunice directs, and Tobin does. 

As she walks back toward the storage room Eunice claps twice and romantic music starts to play. 

“Does she really have music in here like a clap-on-clap-off light?” Christen asks.

Tobin laughs, “Probably! That’s Eunice.” She seems to catch herself smiling and turns her face back into a frown.

“Tobin?” Christen says, almost pleading.

“What, Christen? Do you want to say something so you can blow me off again?”

“Tobin, I’m sorry.” Christen sighs, her chest heavy as she breathes, “I am sorry I jumped to conclusions when you called her babe—”

“THAT’S HER NAME” Tobin starts to yell, pulling on her hair like she’s been going crazy waiting to say that for a week.

“I know.” Christen says calmly. “I know that now.” She casts her eyes downward. “More than being sorry for jumping to conclusions, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you out.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Tobin pleads, again as if she has played this conversation out over and over in the mirror.

“I was scared.” Christen admits. "Everything with you was so easy, Tobin, like a fucking Hallmark Christmas movie. I met you after I fell down on ice! In front of your bakery! Because I was wearing the wrong shoes! And it was just such a stark contrast for me. So different from everything else— in my career— in my life. I just... I kind of expected it to be too good to be true. So, it was easy to believe it was.”

Tobin rests her head between her hands and her knees on her elbows. “Christen,” she starts, sounding frustrated and disappointed. 

“Tobin, wait,” Christen interrupts. “Just let me say something first.”

“Okay.” The word sounds like an exhausted concession. 

“Tobin, I’m sorry because I know I sort of ruined this before it could start. But I don’t know if you felt what I did, but if you did… ” Christen reaches into the air and claps twice.

The lights in the room go dark and the Christmas lights turn on, illuminating the room in a soft glow. The music switches to “Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and Christen holds out her hand. “Could I at least have one Christmas dance?”

Tobin smiles a half-smile and takes her hand reluctantly. She allows Christen to pull her close as they start to sway.

“Tobin, I know I screwed all of this up. But I have literally been falling for you since we met.” Christen’s voice is strained as she holds back tears. “And I promise I’m not always this way—cynical and sad and quick to judge—these last few years have just made it hard to hope for me.” Christen sniffles as they shuffle back and forth, chest to chest, Christen’s head on Tobin’s shoulder. She lets herself wonder if they have the same heartbeat.

_It feels like too much, too soon. But she still thinks they might._

“And I get it, this is a lot. But all I’m asking right now is whether you, Tobin Heath, professional river surfer, her royal highness, baker of rejected goods, would go on a date with me. Could you give me one real chance?”

Tobin leans back, looking into Christen’s eyes cautiously, as if surveying them for some deeper intent. “Christen. I feel it too. This thing here between us. So, yes, I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“PSST!” 

They turn to find Eunice pointing to above them. They follow the line of her finger and look up to see a piece of mistletoe dangling above their heads. 

They lock eyes and Christen shrugs innocently, “I heard something about seven years bad luck or something. I’m pretty sure that’s about breaking mirrors, but I guess, maybe just in case, we should—”

And their second first kiss was even better than the first. And maybe Dave interrupted them again, just as Christen pushed Tobin down onto a chair and straddled her. But the most important thing of all, was that for the first time, Christen started to feel like maybe her hunger could be satisfied after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to the Preathfics Winter Readers that I snuck this one in just a couple of hours before it wasn't the 3rd anywhere on earth anymore. I started writing after work and just finished (3:30am EST)
> 
> Shout out to FreshTilapia for extensive advice and reading so many of my words, to Here_to_read1818 for reading and letting me bounce ideas off of her and helping me generate ideas as I wrote, and to Heath17_KO5 for telling me this was worth not scrapping when I thought I should about 1/3 of the way through. And to CoochLord for the bookshop owners' last name.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed!  
> ❤️ JCAL


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